


death by a thousand papercuts

by writedeku



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: ADHD Coded Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Im tired, MC is gender neutral, No Name MC, Other, We're All Tired, hes tired, it gets old, stop calling mammon stupid all the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writedeku/pseuds/writedeku
Summary: Some things you just get used to after a millennia of it happening to you, and now he sometimes takes pride in it. Comic relief, the breath of fresh air in a tense room, the fire that melts the ice. Everyone has their role to play, and Mammon knows his.So…he isn’t sure—doesn’t know why—it happened today of all days. But lately it’s been happening more and more. That sudden spike of anger, that rush of blood, that churning in his stomach.
Relationships: Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	death by a thousand papercuts

**Author's Note:**

> man idk why but it annoys me how much people look down on mammon and call him and idiot and stuff...i kind of relate to him with his impulse purchases and not thinking things through and i associate a lot of his behaviour with adhd cause i see the parallels .. anyway this made it kind of a vent piece O-O but yeh ! lets get this bread

Mammon isn’t even sure himself why it happened. It’s been a long, long time since they’d come down to the Devildom, the seven of them. It’s been an even longer time since it became common knowledge that he didn’t always think things through, that his brain consisted of fluff and dust and the occasional cobweb. He said things without thinking and did things without looking. Mammon doesn’t know why he’s like this, just knows that he is what he is, and settled for a lifetime of dirty looks and harsh sighs.

And he’s fine with it, really. Some things you just get used to after a millennium of it happening to you, and now he sometimes takes pride in it. Comic relief, the breath of fresh air in a tense room, the fire that melts the ice. Everyone has their role to play, and Mammon knows his.

So…he isn’t sure—doesn’t know why—it happened today of all days. But lately it’s been happening more and more. That sudden spike of anger, that rush of blood, that churning in his stomach.

Asmodeus had just been his usual Asmodeus self. Mammon had just been Mammon. He’d been running his mouth as usual, talking about buying something or owing someone, he’s not even sure why he’d been talking about it. Words just come out of his mouth. And Asmodeus—well, he’d just been playing his role too. Said something snarky, something cold, rolled his eyes. “How can you be such a stain upon us,” or something along those lines and Mammon had just—seen red.

It would strike him as odd, later. They've said so many more worse things. Things unrepeatable. Things he bullies himself with, alone at night. About the war, about their family, about his place in it. But this, this everyday comment? It made him so angry. It made him so fucking angry.

The plate in his hand that he was holding to pile food from the center of the table shattered as his fists tightened, spraying porcelain everywhere. Asmodeus snapped his mouth together with an audible clack as his teeth met each other. The human in the corner visibly jumped in their seat. He felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him as the room sank into a deadly silence.

“Don’t you ever have something nice to say?” His own voice had been alien to himself, like someone else was speaking for him, low and tense and foreign.

Asmodeus did not reply. He just stared at him.

With an unreadable expression on their face, the human got up from their seat and placed their hand on his arm. Said, “hey,” quietly, but with enough presence that the sound of the blood rushing in his ears receded and he swayed slightly, as though he’s coming off a sugar rush.

The sound of clinking had dragged his attention away from the warmth of their touch on his hand. Beel was picking bits of shattered plate out of the roast, a sad expression on his face. Then he gave up and shoved it onto his plate anyway. It distracted him, made him laugh.

“Don’t eat that!” The human chided, momentarily turning away from Mammon, and the warmth left his arm. He didn’t know what to do—so now he’s here, sitting all alone in a storage cabinet, a painful, almost nervous, energy running through his veins.

Why did he do that? Mammon does a lot of things without knowing why he does them, but losing his cool isn’t one of them. Violence is something he does try to avoid. It’s probably because he’s been having a rough week, he tries to rationalize. Lucifer had been on his case again about buying a new wardrobe, never mind that this time it really _was_ essential because he’d crashed into it when he got jumpscared watching a movie with the human. Sure, maybe he didn’t need such an expensive wardrobe, and maybe he didn’t need to pawn one of Lucifer’s fancy coats to get it, but it looked so perfect in his room.

Lucifer never changes his clothes anyway, Mammon would bet his last dime he wouldn’t have even noticed it was gone if Mammon didn’t feel the urge to confess in a roundabout way the next day at breakfast.

He always does this. Thinks about doing something bad, something wrong, feels guilty for it, tries to cover up feeling guilty for it, and ends up confessing within several hours. It’s awful. Maybe he’s just not cut out for the demon lifestyle. He’s sure that if Satan really wanted something, for example, he’d do whatever it takes to get it and he’d never say a word.

A gentle knock on the door startles him out of his makeshift pity party. Mammon yelps and scrambles to find somewhere to hide—can he fit behind a mop—when a familiar voice filters through the door.

“Mammon?”

“I’m not here,” he says, and then knocks himself on the head. Maybe he does deserve to be called stupid for the rest of his life.

“Do you want to be alone?”

Huh. Mammon thinks about it. Sure, being alone by himself is nice, but then his thoughts always get too loud and he ends up feeling worse. And it's...and it's them. Mammon makes all the exceptions in the world for them. With a huff, he pulls open the door and the human is standing there, gentle smile on their face.

“You feeling better?” They ask, ducking under Mammon’s arm to come in with him. It’s a bit of a squeeze, with the two of them in such a small closet. Mammon casts about the upper shelves for anything that could fall on their heads and hurt them. Satisfied there isn’t, and confident in his reflexes if there should be, he allows the human to sit down on the floor in front of him. “You wanna talk about what’s been bothering you?” 

He shrugs his shoulders.

The human taps their chin, then says, “you don’t know?”

“I guess,” he rubs the back of his head. “I don’t normally—that’s not me, you know. Normally I'm cooler.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn't be frightened of me or anything. Not because I'm not powerful but—"

“I’m not.”

“Really?”

“You’d never hurt me,” the human brushes a couple of strands of hair away from his forehead and gives him another smile. “That’s not the pact talking, you know.”

Mammon feels his face turn red, and he looks away. “Do you believe them?” He asks instead and instantly feels like an idiot. What kind of question even is this? “When they call me stupid, and scum, and trash and—”

“Stop it,” the human says sternly. Mammon lets out the rest of his sentence in a long breath. “You also know I don’t. The question is: do you?”

Mammon scoffs. “As if,” he says, but something deep inside shrivels up as he builds his bravado. “I’m the great Mammon! My ego is as unshakeable as my credit score. Listen,” he pats the human’s head and watches the way their smile makes the corners of their eyes crinkle. “I’m fine, really. Just a bad week and an outburst. Don’t go worrying your little head about me now. I've heard humans can die of stress."

The human doesn’t look convinced, but they sigh and let it go. “I’ll sit next to you in class,” they say, unfolding their legs and standing. Mammon springs to his feet and gives them two thumbs up. If he’s sitting beside them, maybe he can copy off…his thoughts trail off as the human pulls open the door and the light from the outside floods in.

He tries to go about his day as per normal, online window shopping, drawing doodles onto the human’s palm during class, dreaming about what he would do when Lucifer gave him back his credit card after confiscating it again—but that nervous energy never goes away, and by the final bell he feels like he’s jumping off the walls.

The human bids him goodbye here, telling him that they have to go meet Simeon for some tutoring on the history of the Celestial Realm, to which Mammon replied with, “The Celestial Realm is a garbage place anyway, with garbage history,” which made the human smack him lightly on the arm and press a finger to their lips.

The zinging in his fingers doesn’t go away, not even at night, not the next day. He feels like he’s been dialed up to eleven. By the end of the week, he’s so exhausted that when Satan makes a comment on his failing schoolwork Mammon doesn’t feel that same build up as before just—a cold dread. He wonders how much of the words that they say they actually believe—just how stupid they think he is, just how unreliable. He knows that some of them blame the tatters that they left the Celestial Realm in on him, he knows some of them think they'd be better off without him. Why were you made the way you are, when everyone else is so perfect. So true to their role as angels and now as demons.

Truthfully, he does think he's wrong to wish that they had some other opinion of him other than something trashy like this, considering he’s done nothing to prove otherwise. But nobody ever comments so harshly on Asmodeus’ wrongdoings, like seducing all those women and men and causing so many wars and battles, Beel’s hunger-rages are a charming personality trait and Leviathan is just—well, that’s just _how Leviathan is._ He has to be dragged on his hands and knees to a fucking cafe, but the second Mammon does something he doesn't mean to--breaking a vase that wasn't there the day before, burning food on the stove--he's a complete and utter fuck up.

He gets the short end of the stick. He tries his best, he really does. He does have a planner, only he forgets about it when he needs to. He does try to study, but when he was studying for this particular test he got sidetracked with a pet project of his on the evolution of currency and just—totally forgot about what he was supposed to be doing. Things like this come easy to Satan, they do not to him. Why can’t they just understand that?

He doesn’t realise he’s been saying all of this out loud until Satan closes his book with a sharp slap. There’s an odd, faraway sort of look in his narrowed eyes that makes Mammon swallow nervously, waiting for the rebuke. Or...or a--No. Without a word, Satan simply gathers up his things and leaves the room, brushing by him and exiting quickly. Typical. Now he feels it once more—that bubbling in his stomach, the churning, that sick, awful nausea, and it all rises up like a soda bottle shaken too many times and explodes in a painful shout that has the tables closest to him flying up and away the books to fall off the shelves and lecterns. The tables smash as they hit the wall and the books flutter loose pages and Mammon feels so _angry_ again, flickering between his demon and normal form.

He hasn’t felt this angry since the war. 

The sound of footsteps behind him makes him whirl around. Devil forbid, whoever came through that door right now was going to get punched. But the person who bursts into the room is the human, worried look on their face, and Mammon’s swing never even materializes. Behind them, he can see Satan peering at him, eyebrows furrowed into a look of uncharacteristic concern. So that’s where he went—god, can’t he do anything by himself?

The human has launched themselves at him like a flying squirrel and throws their arms around him, pulling him down—with a loud oof, both of them tumble onto the ground. By the time Mammon regains his bearings, Satan is gone again. For some reason, this makes him angry again. They shouldn’t have to rely on someone else to fix their problems.

As though they can tell that he’s pissed again, the human’s arms tighten around his neck. “Mammon, hey,” they say. “Don’t be too hard on your brother. He was worried.”

“I didn’t ask for his worry, I asked for him to try and understand me. Is that too much?” Mammon spits. His hands are shaking, his breath coming in short bursts. “I can’t—I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care what they say about me. I do care. I care very much I’ve always—I’ve always fucking cared. And they think that they can go about saying whatever they like of me, and thinking it won't make me feel anyway."

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“I thought you might have an—well, I didn’t think it’d be literally, but an explosion again. ‘Cause you’re never honest with yourself,” the human pulls away and looks at him seriously, forcing him to meet their eyes. “You don’t like the wardrobe you bought.”

Mammon is so blindsided by the change in topic that he’s completely distracted. “Huh?”

“The wardrobe. That you got to replace your broken one. I know you don’t like it.”

He splutters. The wardrobe? His expensive, mahogany wardrobe? It looks brilliant in his room, matches with everything--“What the hell are you talking about? I did so much for that wardrobe! It looks great!”

“I know you don’t like that wardrobe!” They shout and Mammon’s eyes widen. “You look at it every time we’re in there. You keep asking me if I like it. You ask everyone if they like it. You hmm-ed and hah-ed when we first set it up together. Why did you buy that wardrobe?”

Fuck, he doesn’t know! He’s not some interior design expert. He got the wardrobe because—because--“Because it was expensive!”

“Yes!” They poke him hard in the chest. “You got it because you knew you couldn’t afford it. You got it because you thought that this was the wardrobe people expect you to buy, and you took one of Lucifer’s coats because that’s just what you always do.”

Mammon feels an intense pain in his head coming on as a result of this conversation. “So what?”

“You can do what you want! You don’t have to listen to what you think people want of you. You don’t have to always play the fool, or buy things you don’t actually like, or act like an asshole. If you want to be nice, be nice! If you want to buy a cheaper wardrobe you think looks nicer then buy that one, if you want to stand up for yourself then stand up for yourself!”

Someone is filling a balloon up in his chest. It rises, grows, expands, until Mammon chokes, slaps his hands and his wings over the human's fragile little ears, and bellows again. The floor shakes beneath him. "You shouldn't be the one telling me this!" His voice is hoarse now, scratchy and irritated, but he still can't stop yelling. "You shouldn't be the one trying to fix my family. You've only been here, four, five months--they've known me for so much more. Why did Satan send you to tell me what I need to hear? Why can't they just tell me themselves!" 

"Mammon--" 

"I took care of them," he seethes. "When the rain was fucking poison and the earth burnt our feet, _I_ covered them with my wings until I didn't have any left. When all Lucifer could do was rage I held this fucking family together. When Satan just fucking appeared in this world like a baby in a jack-in-the-box I was the one who carried him, who fed him, who taught him. Now they've all forgotten. Maybe if I had thought it out a bit more we could all be together, but I'm not the fucking angel of battle strategy. I wasn't meant to fight in any wars. What kind of God's plan--" he chokes on the Holy word and it pisses him off even more. "I've always done my fucking best. And okay, I'm a screw-up, I tried to rob vaults and scam witches and the one thing all this has in common is clearly I was shit at all of them!" 

The human straightens their back, takes a deep breath, and grabs the sides of his face. "Stop this, now," they say. Mammon braces himself the feeling of a noose tightening around his neck as the pact activates, but nothing comes. "You think too little of yourself. You've been taught to think too little of yourself. I've only been here four months, like you say, but I can see it clearly."

Mammon sinks like a weight in water. “I can’t control it,” he says quietly. “The bad decisions. The impulse to act irrationally. It just—it just happens. When I try to be good I fail, when I try to be bad I fail."

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is. I should—do a better job of managing it. Learn techniques to work with what I have, or something. Simeon’s been trying to get me into yoga. I can’t sit still for yoga.” A pause. “Or stand still, for that matter.”

“Hey,” the human says, gently petting the side of his face. “We can help you slowly figure out what works for you. Everyone is different, everyone has their own coping mechanisms. Yours was--" they purse their lips. "Not the healthiest. But we can work on them. Your brothers--they shouldn't be allowed to get away with this. You shouldn't allow them to get away with this. You need to tell them off. It's second nature to them, making fun of you. Using you to lighten the tension. Put a stop to it. Don't accept it. You deserve better than that. Your brothers don’t mean what they say, not really, so they shouldn’t say it at all. I’m confident that once we open their eyes they’ll realise they’ve been mean. ‘Cause,” a small smile graces their face and their fingers brush his neck slightly. “They do love you. A lot. And they want what’s best for you.”

"You say it like it's easy.”

"It's not," the human sighs. "But now you have me," a small twinkle in their eyes. "I'm always on your team, Mammon. Remember that." 

Mammon doesn't usually trust people very easily, but there's something about this insignificant little human that makes his heart do cartwheels. Looking at them, he can't help but smile. That nervous energy from before seems to be draining away, out of his fingertips, down through his toes, sinking into the ground. The human usually had this kind of effect on him, but now he thinks it might be something else altogether. For the first time in a long while, he feels relieved. Like someone else is carrying a heavy bag he'd been entrusted with for many miles. “You think they will say sorry? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word come out of Lucifer’s mouth.”

“Oh, they will,” the human says darkly, which is such a contrast to their usual, peppy self that Mammon bursts out laughing, reaching out to grab them and pull them in close.

The human pats his back gently, and then presses a kiss to his cheek. “Come on,” they say kindly, pulling him to his feet. “I had Satan round up everyone in the kitchen. I've got a whole lecture planned. It's three pages long and includes many _how dare yous_ and _did you think this was the right thing to do_ and _where have all your manners gone_. If you all have never had a mother before, you're about to find out what being scolded by one feels like."

Mammon snorts. “What makes you think I'm ready to face them? I've been hiding for fucking centuries." 

“To be honest, I don't think you are,” the human says thoughtfully. "What I do think is that I better get this happening quickly, or you’d change your mind and go back to pretending that everything was okay.”

“I wouldn’t do that," he puts a hand to his heart. "I confessed to you. I screamed out my emotions. I'm a whole new me." 

The human looks over at him and gives him a look that screams _yeah, right_. “And I’m returning the wardrobe tonight. We’re going to look for something you actually like, not what you think you’re supposed to like.”

“Okay,” Mammon toddles after them out of the ruined study area like a puppy following their owner. He’ll find someone to clean it up later. Watching the back of this stranger who’d come into his life and turned thousands of years of familial dynamics up on their head, he feels a gratefulness that he didn’t think was possible for him to feel. “Hey, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

The human turns their head and their eyes soften, as they always do when they look at him. It makes Mammon feel special. Very special. And loved. “Anything for you,” they say, and give him a big smile. “But the hard work is up to you! We’ve recognized the problem, now we can solve it, yes?”

“Yes!” Mammon mock salutes, the human bursts out laughing, and Mammon—well, Mammon doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good. There's a nervous pit in his stomach from the thought of challenging his brothers, but--his human turns to give him an encouraging look and he steels himself for it. He can do this. He's the great Mammon, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading ! pls do kudos or comment if u enjoyed bc it would make my whole day !!!!!!!!!!!! also u can find me on twt as @narutokin__ :D


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